


Almost Lover

by Nostalgic_Kitty



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Canon Compliant, Charles is sad and stuff, Erik has Feelings, First Kiss, Honestly Erik what are you thinking, M/M, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nostalgic_Kitty/pseuds/Nostalgic_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I cannot go to the ocean<br/>I cannot drive the streets at night<br/>I cannot wake up in the morning<br/>Without you on my mind<br/>-"Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy</p>
<p>Charles knew Erik wasn't his from the beginning. They were always going to be almost something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Lover

**Author's Note:**

> First fic ever posted! I've been lurking in the fandom for years and finally decided to contribute. Based on the song in the description, which is a song I adore. <3 Hope you enjoy and please comment if you did!

They’re in Florida again, near the coast and so close to where they met—nearly a month ago now. The sun sits low on the horizon, lying in the undulating hammock of the sea and casting warm pink and gold light onto the fibers of Erik’s white polo shirt. Walking down by the water with wet, salt-soaked sand embracing each step like a lover, they know without words that this soft and shifting _something_ filling all the empty spaces between them is busy putting down sturdy roots that lodge in each of their chests like a whispered promise.

The distant, muted voices a constant reminder of their public surroundings, all they allow themselves is the periodic and rhythmic brushing of Erik’s hand against the back of Charles’. It almost seems an accident—almost, but not quite. In the miniscule moment nestled down between the soft-armed sea breeze whispering over the water strong enough to toss Charles’ unruly bangs into his eyes and the way he gently angles his body towards Erik just as Erik’s fingertips once more brush over his knuckles, Charles glances up and sees. Lingering around the edges of Erik’s lips is the barest hint of a smile—is something unspeakably wonderful and so, so warm.

And with Erik’s eyes shining like polished sea glass and the setting sun slanting its light off the waves in small, glittering eddies and the simple, casual _ease_ with which he occupies his space next to Charles, he can’t help but look at Erik and think to himself, shocked and delighted, _You—you are everything_.

_*_

In the cool dark of the evening, when they are curled close together under the sheets in another hotel room, Erik lifts one rough, long-fingered hand and traces the features of Charles’ face with his fingertips, slowly, as if trying to memorize each pore and freckle through the delicate lines of his fingerprints alone. Sliding over eyelashes-brows-ears-nose-lips, Erik starts to sing, something low and soft and foreign. Muzzily reaching out with his mind, Charles tries to catch the meaning from Erik’s thoughts, but only winds up with a more defined sense of the rhythms and shapes of the words.

“Spanish?” he asks. Erik’s fingers pause in their path, but Charles keeps his eyes shut.

“Yes.”

And if his voice is thick with tears, they don’t talk about it. And if Charles can barely breathe for the sadness that washes over him, that calls to him to smooth away every needle prick point of pain clamoring to rip apart Erik’s dear, precious heart, he doesn’t speak a word—for fear of breaking something already so impossibly fragile, set in delicate glass and seemingly waiting to shatter.

*

“Why is it that you continue to insist upon this nonsensical pacifism, Charles? You _know_ how much this means to me, you’ve _seen_ it. Or are you just too blinded by your righteous quest to remake me in your perfect image that you’ve utterly forgotten to consider what I want?”

That last line hurts, cuts deep past skin and muscles and sinews and leaves a searing ache in Charles’ chest that pricks tears in the corners of his eyes and sets his hands to trembling. Because Erik is perfect, _perfect_ and Charles would never wish to change him so. Slowly—trying not to step too forcefully upon the brittle threads holding them together, not to say something unforgiveable that will bring all the pieces of their joined hearts crashing to the ground—Charles reaches out one smooth, pale palm and lifts it to cup the side of Erik’s angular face.

“Oh my friend, surely you must know by now? All I want for you is happiness, and I never say or do anything to you without that goal ever-present in my mind.”

For one clear moment, Erik looks so vulnerable and open it makes Charles’ chest ache—but then Erik turns away with a sharp movement, breaking the point of contact and striding towards the study door. Hand on the knob, Erik pauses and turns to glare coldly at Charles:

“If you wanted me happy, you wouldn’t try and talk me out of killing Shaw, _my friend_.”

Wood creaks and a loud crack signals the shutting of the door behind Erik, the force with which he closes it augmented by his powers working the metal of the lock. Charles stands with his hand still floating uselessly in the air. He clears his throat hard to swallow a sob. Charles knows he is losing Erik with each step they take away from each other.

*

After, when the boys are fighting again at the breakfast table and Charles is trying to bury the sadness deep down beneath his surface thoughts, something within him bends and pulls, snapping like old rubber:

“ _Enough_ ,” He yells, the force of the singular word echoed in the back of each of the boys’ minds. “Go—just—go to your rooms.” The boys obey with a silent air of pity cloaking their thoughts, standing and leaving Charles digging his nails hard into the leather arms of his wheelchair.

And Charles knows he’s not their father—he knows that Hank and Sean both have their own fathers waiting for the in the human world, that Alex would never want a replacement. But it still hurts to be pitied by those you’re meant to lead and raise. It still hurts so, _so_ much to know that all your effort in covering up the cracks and fissures that have formed in your heart has gone to waste.

_He should be here,_ Charles thinks. Erik should be here to help mend the broken pieces of this family he’s left behind. Erik should be here to hold him in the night when he’s racked through and through with pain, when he falls whilst transferring himself to the chair, and when the boys refuse to see sense and dispense with their petty arguments. Charles should have—have—

But Charles knew Erik wasn't his from the beginning. They were always going to be almost something, not quite whole and sound, not quite able to keep the water and dust out. Erik was _never_ his, but Charles thought maybe, just maybe they could be a little more than almost something, in the end.

*

Their first kiss happens like this: they’re both a bit drunk and wobbling down the bright and rich streets of New Orleans, leaning against one another and laughing at some already-forgotten joke. Suddenly, around the next corner, the drifting tunes of a modified Waltz slip past bricks to grace their ears. Coming to an abrupt stop, Charles turns to Erik with an air of fake propriety, bowing forward and asking:

“Kind sir, may I have this dance?”

Erik looks immediately taken aback, then begins to laugh hysterically. His teeth gleam in the lamplight and the shadows of passersby trace their way over the planes of his face. He’s beautiful and wholly unreal, Charles thinks.

“Alright, you may,” Erik manages to get out between peals of laughter. And before Charles has even caught the formation of the thought in his mind, Erik is twining his long fingers with Charles’ and pulling him aside into a deserted alley. The world spins and turns, a brilliant medley of colors and sound, as Erik spins Charles around and begins to dance with him. He dances open and free, with a genuine grace and natural pull to him that Charles rarely witnesses in the regularly-guarded man.

They dance past the music switching to a new tune, on and on, until Charles is dizzy and gripping the cloth of Erik’s shirt for balance as he laughs too. And, just like that, it is the easiest and most right thing Charles has ever felt to bring his head up and slip his mouth up onto Erik’s.

It becomes all the easier when Erik kisses back and circles his strong arms about Charles’ waist, pulling him intimately close and into a world made only of heat and glancing flashes of light.

*

Erik walks away like this: his back turned, his eyes downcast, and with the thick metal helmet a gleaming casement that holds back all the wonder of Erik’s mind. He walks away like this, with no proper goodbye, no final kiss—just one last brush of knuckles down Charles’ chest. He leaves like this and never looks back.

Was that last touch accidental? Was it another almost promise? Now Charles will never know, he thinks. Now is the end and now is what losing him feels like.

The internal pain nearly drowns out the absence of a certain and expected physical agony. Almost, but not quite; and isn’t that perfect, Charles thinks, chuckling grimly. Isn’t that just the perfect way to end this tragedy: Charles laughing, dark and incongruous, as his useless legs trail behind him like the foamy debris of a motor boat.

*

He wakes to the gentle shift of cotton drapes and the smell of sea air drifting over the hospital room. He wakes, and remembers—

End


End file.
